


Faetal Attraction

by MeanwhileMelody



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Celtic Mythology abounds, Changeling!Stiles, Derek's werewolf roots, Jungle, M/M, Prophecies and ancient quests, Shenanigans in the fairy world, fae!Stiles, gay clubs, identity crisis, morgan le fay - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-08-03
Packaged: 2018-05-15 00:19:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5764525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeanwhileMelody/pseuds/MeanwhileMelody
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fairy and a 'human' walk into a gay club. Said Fairy starts talking right out of the Young Adult Fantasy Novel section. Stop me when you've heard this one before. I'll sum it up for you. It goes like this. 'Stiles, you're not as human as you thought you were. And by the way? We're coming for you the moment you turn of age.' So. Stiles' birthday might not be as full of legal sex and cake as he thought it would be. Might be full of kidnapping and an identity crisis. He should really have seen this one coming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Stiles didn’t look like a fairy. Not even if you asked any of the Drag Queens that hung around Jungle, who looked more unearthly with every color the strobe lights danced across their painted faces. They were beautiful, they could belt out Madonna like nobodies’ business, and they were the few rare creatures that thought Stiles was cute. But they weren’t called ‘Drag’ Queens for no reason. On a good day he might get ‘twinkie’, because Coco suspected, correctly, that if you bit him you got a creamy center, but no one, not a single solitary soul, thought Stiles Stilinski looked like a fairy. It was insulting really, seeing as that’s exactly what he was.

Admit it. The first thing you think of when you think fairy is Tinkerbell. And all you remember about her are the delicate gossamer wings and the way she looks in flight, trailing pixie dust like every Kindergartener in the world that went wrong playing with glitter. No one remembers the fiery temper. How jealous she was of Wendy. How that jealously nearly led to homicide via defenestration. That’s what fairies really are. Tempestuous, clever, and wrathful. Stiles’ claim to fame.

Now, Stiles didn’t know he was a fairy yet. That came a little bit later. Right now, all he knew was that if this guy didn’t get out of his face, he was going to go full on Babe Ruth on his ass. Which, to be fair, was a fantastic ass that did not deserve being flattened by the business end of Stiles’ bat. And, lucky for him, would not be flattened by Stiles’ bat. Because he did not have it.

This was a remarkable lack of foresight, considering he got attacked like the creature of the week circled, underlined, and highlighted ‘Attack Stiles day’ on their murder calendar. Attack Stiles day might as well be the eighth day of the week, as far as the Big Bads of Beacon Hills were concerned. And yet, here he was, not a weapon in sight, with one of those Big Bads all up in his personal space.

To be fair to the guy, he might not be one of your run of the mill evildoers. After all, how many Supervillains came to the Jungle to unwind? Not as many as all that brightly colored spandex they wore in comics had indicated to Stiles. No, usually the Jungle was a safe haven where Stiles could come and dance (flail) and drink (Rum and coke- sans rum) in peace. After all, the sheer radius of all that limb spinning everywhere gave him something akin to a force field on the dancefloor. No one wanted, nor dared, to approach.

Not in all the years he’d been coming here, had any guy so much as blinked an eye his way. The girls had, of course. Mama Coco had more than once offered to beat his face –which had him lurching away in fear before he realized that was slang for decking him out in makeup and that Coco wasn’t about to come after him using a stiletto as a stabbing implement- and adopt him as her drag daughter, but, sadly, Stiles could hardly walk in normal shoes, let alone the deathtraps that were heels. No one looked his way, danced with him, bought him a drink- he was invisible. Might as well be Susan Storm.

Therefore it was understandably suspicious, that he was pinned back against a wall that smelled of booze and barf, caged in by the arms of a man so attractive he could give Brad Pitt a run for his money. But the wrong incredibly handsome man. The 'Not Derek' brand of awe inspiring man meat. And therefore, the wrong brand. His hair was dark and wavy, just long enough that a long strand could dip over his eyes, which were the kind of cerulean one only got in blue raspberry jolly ranchers, and therefore must be fake. His face was oval, his chin and jaw a smooth, continuous curve. A Ken doll would be jealous.

A certifiable hottie with a body. Stiles should be used to this, seeing as he was surrounded night and day by the pack. Who just happened to be prime specimens of male beauty who were allergic to shirts. If Stiles wanted to, he could probably make his own Calendar made up of candid shots. It would sell like hotcakes. He would too, if a certain Derek Hale AKA ‘Mr. July’ AKA ‘Hottest season of the month’ wouldn’t rip him into tiny bite sized pieces and feed him to the pack in a stew. 

As it was, Stiles had yet to be desensitized to hot people. No, they could still illicit the same response that he’d had all those years ago to being pushed up against a wall by Derek Hale. Instant Boner, cheeks red as his cherry, primed to be popped, and a very embarrassing gasping sound whenever he drew in breath. He was pretty sure that, whoever this guy was, he could tell that Stiles was two seconds away from begging him to go all praying mantis on him. He wouldn’t mind the whole getting his head ripped off thing as long as this guy just took off his pants. 

Wait, what the hell was he saying? Of course he’d mind getting his head ripped off! He had so much to live for! Taco Tuesday. Season six of Game Of Thrones. Being best man at Scott’s wedding. And for Christ’s sake, at some point, if he stayed alive long enough, the universe had to take pity on him and get him laid, right?

So instead of leaning back into the wall, batting his eyes, and moaning ‘Take me, I’m yours.’ Stiles did the only logical thing to do in this situation. He made a really big scene. 

“Get the hell off me, dicksneeze! No means no! Consent matters! If you want to keep your balls, dude, you’d better back up about fifteen feet, cause buddy, I’m a black belt in-“

“Be quiet. They can’t hear you.”

Damn, even his voice was beautiful. Sonorous and strong, and it slid into Stiles’ senses like silk and the rustling of scales. Stiles took vindictive pleasure in imagining this guy with a voice like Mickey Mouse. Better. Goofy.

Sadly, Goofy was right, even if he sounded totally ridiculous. Stiles had been screaming at the top of his lungs, and not a single person had turned towards them, trying to pinpoint where the commotion was coming from. He’d been counting on the interest a fight would generate, but- nothing. In fact, now that he was looking at everyone else, instead of his captor, it was like their gazes seemed to slide over their patch of wall. Like they weren’t even there. Every time someone looked their way, their eyes went unfocused and hazy and, inevitably, turned away to find something that could actually capture their attention. If Stiles had been invisible before, now, he was downright nonexistent. Not even a blip on their radar.

In other words, trapped, helpless, and probably about to be devoured in the not fun way. The next logical step was, of course, to try and knee the guy where it would hurt a man most. Stiles’ foot got two inches off the ground before it was stomped back down. The string of cursing Stiles let out in reply would have impressed a sailor.

A sailor, and, apparently, the Creepy Crawly of the week. He looked suitably admiring of Stiles’ coarse language. Come to think of it, they’d been standing here for a good couple minutes while Stiles grappled with the fact that he’d been targeted, instead of Scott, or someone actually valuable to the pack, and the guy hadn’t done anything but tell him to shut up, and stopped him from doing any damage to his valuables. Not as bad as it could have been.

“Would appreciate some indication of what’s going on here. Got a FAQ? Introductory pamphlet? Hi, my name is Creeperpants Mc. Freakazoid, and I am a: Insert whatever creature of the night you are, and how you came to be in possession of Harry Potter’s invisibility cloak.”

Stiles’ mouth was going a mile a minute, now that his adrenaline was up, and his interest was piqued. He actually raised an eyebrow at the guy, too curious for his own good.

“Seriously. How can they not see us?”

If this was a comic book, there could have been a million and one answers. They were in a whole other dimension. This was all in Stiles’ head. Actual invisibility cloak. The possibilities were endless. But, because this was the real world, there was only answer that would ever be given. And this asshole had to give it in the most smug possible way, smirk and all. “Magic.”

Stiles hoped the long, slow, roll of his eyes displayed just how unimpressed he was. “Yippee.” He drawled. “So, what are you? Witch? Druid? Something new and exciting? The thing from the Black Lagoon?”

Surprise flickered across the man’s face, before it settled back into it’s mask of superiority, and supreme attractiveness. “I’ve been called a witch. And a druid.” A wink that was so much hotter and less corny than any wink had any right to be. “You may call me Morgan. Morgan Le Fay.”

“Yeah, yeah, Bond, James Bond- Wait. Your parents actually named you after Morgana Le Fay? Man, that’s kind of twisted. Or did you chose your own name because you feel oh so connected to your witchy ancestor and-“ 

Once again Stiles was cut off, although he had a sneaking suspicion that this time, there was a lot more irritation in Morgan’s reprisal. As illustrated by the hand clamped over his mouth. Which he licked. Because he could. The man even tasted sweet. How was that even possible.

“I was told you were smart.” Definitely annoyed. Stiles’ infectious personality strikes again. “I was misinformed. I am Morgan Le Fay. The one, and the only Morgan Le Fay. Guardian of Avalon. Brother to Arthur Pendragon. Father of- Stop that. You’re worse than a child. You’re only humiliating yourself, you know. Fine. Fine! If you have something to say, say it!”

Stiles ceased blowing raspberries into Morgan’s hand the moment it was removed from his mouth. But there was a final, triumphant raspberry blown into the air, before he opened his mouth to talk again. 

“So you’re telling me, that you’re Morgana Le Fay. The priestess. Emphasis on priestess. You know. A job for those of the feminine persuasion” If Stiles’ hands weren’t trapped against his sides, he’d be curving them to illustrate his point. But by the disgusted look on Morgan’s face, he was clear enough.

“I was female in the days of Camelot. Now I am male.” He shrugged lightly. “Changes by the day, changes by the decade. It’s of no consequence. I did not come here to discuss gender constructs. I came here to discuss your future.”

Loud snickering was enough to tell everyone what Stiles thought of that. “The Great Morgan Le Fey. Glorified fortune teller. Gotta say, dude, I kind of expected more.”

The expression that got out of Morgan was familiar enough to be comforting. The face that said ‘You’d better call a dentist, because one more word out of you and I am going to knock those pearly whites right out of your skull’. It reminded him of Derek. Man, he missed Derek right now. He could use some of that brute strength and rip you to shreds mentality. But because Stiles believed that this was, actually, the Morgan Le Fey of legend, and therefore the person responsible for the downfall of the Legendary Camelot, and not some delusional nut job escaped from the mental ward, like him, he shut up. After all. Weirder things had happened. 

“You are an incredibly lucky boy. And an incredibly infuriating one.” If only Stiles could bow and wait for applause. Sadly, still against the wall. “You’ve been claimed by the Winter Court, The Unseelie Fae folk, and those that made you. You will come of age in a week and then- you may come home.”

He was smiling like he’d just granted Stiles the scholarship of a lifetime, or done something else, equally as charitable and generous. Stiles just gaped at him. Gaped a little while longer. Reevaluated his stance on if this guy was a nut job. Looked for any stray hospital bands. Finally brought his eyes back up, and his mouth to a close.

“Look, dude, I don’t know what magic mushrooms you are on, but, one, pretty sure my mom and dad made me, and two, got a home. Very comfortable. Got a pretty solid butt indent in my couch.”

Disdain had never been so gloriously attractive. Morgan looked like a Supermodel, even as he regarded Stiles like he was scum of the earth, stuck to his shoe. “Haven’t you ever wondered, why your name feels so wrong? Michael. Not as hard to pronounce as you tell everyone. But it just doesn’t feel like yours, does it? That’s why you needed to go by your nickname. Because you’re not Michael Stilinski, no matter how hard you try to be.” His voice was a purr. Stiles’ back had straightened, and chills were dipping up and down his spine. “Or why you settled in so very easily, to the rhythm of a Supernatural world? It would drive most humans mad. Have you ever wondered about your propensity for trouble? The way mischief follows you. Your affinity for the woods, how you know your way around as though you belong there.”

Stop it. It’s not true. The words didn’t make it out of Stiles’ mouth. Morgan just kept going, his voice hypnotic. Horrifying. “Humans don’t belong in the woods, Michael. Humans don’t have a spark like yours. Humans, don’t belong in the Faery Courts. But you do. Like all Changelings do.”

It was all in a rush, too fast. One blink to another, and then Stiles was on the ground, crumpled up, like his legs wouldn’t support his body even if he tried to get back on his feet. Morgan wiped his hands on his jeans as if to brush off the disgusting feel of Stiles’ skin. “I’ll return for you when you turn eighteen. Happy Birthday, Stiles.” Another blink, another heartbeat, and he was gone. 

The floor was sticky. And colder than he’d thought it would be, because Stiles was shaking like it was twenty degrees, instead of balmy California weather, let alone the humid heat of a club packed tight with bodies. Someone offered him a hand, their voice piercing through the bubble around him that had been drowning out every sound but his own ragged breathing. “You okay buddy?” He slapped the hand away. Stood up on legs that shook like a newborn fawns. 

Unlike the rest of him, his voice was steady. “I’m fine. I’m okay.” Like he could make himself believe it, if he said it with enough conviction. He pushed away. Through the crowd, bumping against sweaty shoulders, feet slipping on spilled drinks, weaving through to the door, to burst out of the club to draw in lungful after lungful of air, heady with smoke from cigarettes and vapes. 

It was like his skin was too tight, like there was a heavy weight in his stomach, weighing him down. Inhale smoke and night air. Exhale everything else. Everything that was making him too full and buzzing with tension. It didn’t work.

Still, Stiles managed to stumble all the way over to his jeep. The way he was shuffling around, feet scuffing against the concrete must have made him look like Frankenstein, not quite recovered from the rigor mortis. Stiles didn’t care, as long as he could wedge himself into a familiar space, put his hands on a powder blue hood, wrench open a familiar squeaky door, bury his face in a dashboard that still smelled like the pepper spray he’d spilled all over it, that night at the drive in with a horror movie playing, when he edged over to the wrong side of paranoid and mistook a tree for a demon coming to suck his soul out through his eyeballs. His jeep, was like home.

He probably wasn’t alright to drive. Not with the way his breath stuttered. With how his lungs felt coated in lead, hard to move, hard to fill up. Not with the way his hands trembled so hard on the wheel they might as well be vibrating. But those same shaking fingers fit just right into the well worn grooves of the wheel. And he knew how to rev Roscoe up just right, so his car spluttered to life. He knew just how fast he could go without overheating the engine, knew every pothole in every road of this town. And most importantly, he knew all the potholes on the road to Derek Hale’s house like they were old friends.

Why Derek Hale, one might ask? Why go to the grumpiest of all werewolves, instead of driving home, burying himself in a nest of blankets and trying to convince himself that this was all a nightmare? Why Derek Hale, instead of Scott McCall, Alpha Extraordinaire, best friend that Stiles could ever ask for? Why Derek Hale, who was more likely to introduce Stiles to the wall and leave him with a tattoo in bruises, spelling ‘Go away’, than to actually sit down with him, help him keep calm, and offer sage advice? Simple. Because when Stiles was about to get into a fight, the first person he wanted on his side, was Derek.

Derek was tough. And not just in the way everyone knew. Sure, he was skilled at turning scary of the week into sashimi with his claws, and he was definitely harder to kill than a Terminator. But he was also just- tough. He rolled with the punches. And Stiles had to give it to him- the man took more punches than anyone else in the pack. 

When he needed to be safe, he went to Derek. Because sure. Scott would ride in on a white horse, and take care of business. But the problem with Scott, was how good he was. If he could avoid it, he wouldn’t so much as snip a hair off the head of their enemies. Scott didn’t want to hurt anyone. He wanted to save the world. And that was good and all. It was great, actually. Everyone needed a moral compass, and Scott was there to point them due North. He was a shining example of a Leader. And Stiles didn’t feel safe, with just that. With just good. Not anymore.

Not since he’d become not good. He’d always dabbled a little, in the grey. Always sympathized with the bad guys in books and movies. Always thought that, if it was him, he’d do it too. He’d kill and he’d ruin, and he’d go evil, if it meant protecting what he cared about the most. And then it was him. And that was exactly what he did. He fought dirty, he fought to the death, and for the most part, he managed to keep his people alive. And if all it took to do that was blood on his hands- who cared? Scott did. Derek didn’t.

Derek would be on his side. He’d say that Stiles was right to be drawing up a plan of attack already. He’d plan with Stiles. Scott would smile that puppy dog smile, thank god that Stiles wasn’t hurt, and try to smooth things over. Try to talk it out. Stiles could hear it already. ‘He didn’t even hurt you Stiles. And he could have. So he can’t be all bad. No one’s all bad’. Scott was wrong. Some people were all bad. And maybe Morgan wasn’t some people. But Stiles wasn’t about to take his chances.

Stiles loved Scott for being Scott. But it wasn’t Scott he needed. It wasn’t good and right that he needed. It was Derek Hale, with his bull headed stubbornness, his determination to keep everyone alive, and his unflinching way of doing what needed to be done. So instead of Scott’s house, smelling of Melissa’s carnadas and Scott’s disgusting protein shake, Stiles’ knuckles were rapping against the door of the loft, so loud that a neighbor, one floor down, yowled at him to shut up, that some people had work tomorrow and needed their sleep. And when Derek opened the door, it looked like he wholeheartedly agreed.

Slouchy sweats hung low on Derek’s hips. His hair was sleep mussed, flatter on one side than the other. And he had telltale red lines on his face, probably from sleeping on the very edge of a pillow. His eyes weren’t quiet open, and it looked like his mouth would only open to take a bite out of Stiles’ carotid artery. Apparently Stiles would be doing the talking. Not so different from any other day. Except for the Morgan Le Fay, You’re a fairy Stiles, thing. No biggie.

“So I’m Harry Potter. I mean, they didn’t have the courtesy to send letters or anything, and it wasn’t Hagrid it was Morgan knocking my door down, or, y’know, shoving me up against a wall, you guys would get along great, by the way. And I’m a fairy and something about the Unseelie court and that can’t be real, maybe I’m going crazy, maybe I’m-“

It wasn’t even the dazed and confused look on Derek’s face that made Stiles shut up. It wasn’t the fact that he knew he was talking too fast, too much shooting off words like bullets, letting out everything in his head in rapid fire bursts of Stiles speak. It wasn’t even that he realized how insane he must sound. It was just- he was tired of thinking. He was tired of his head going a mile a minute. And he needed Derek to take it from here. “Do I smell human?”

Because Derek would know, wouldn’t he? He could tell a Kitsune from a Werewolf, he could smell emotions, for Christ’s sake, surely, surely he could tell if Stiles was human or not. Stiles almost flinched at the desperation in his voice, as he brushed into Derek’s space, shoving himself forward. “Come on, bloodhound. Take a good whiff and tell me I smell human.”


	2. Chapter 2

How do humans smell? Stiles thought it was a pretty damn hard thing to pin down. Was it the perfume of an elderly woman as she tottered past, her white hair dyed badly, her lips smeared with lipstick, her pale, wrinkled cheeks dashed with red streaks of blush? Was it the guy in best buy, with a hat rank from his greasy hair, and his fingers still covered in dorito dust as he touched every product possible? Was it those people who ate vegan food and smelled of sunlight, their natural tan glowing even in dim lighting? Or was it the man on the street, homeless, trying to keep clean, even though he'd worn his clothes so many times that the odor of his body would never come off? Humans.

Humans were so infinitely varied. There were millions, billions, of different ways, different lifestyles, different scents. Hell, even on a cultural level. There were Indian men and women smelling of pepper and curry, fragrant and sweet. There were old Polish Grandmothers smelling of homemade chicken soup and the dusty soaps clouding up their bathroom. Scott smelled of his mom's best carne asada, spicy and delicious. Everyone was so /different/. Thousands of variations, thousands of scents all twined together on one person. And Stiles expected Derek to smell under all of that. Under all the scents of life, the scents that painted a picture of someone's life. He wanted Derek to smell down to the very core. Smell human. 

 

Was it possible? Stiles thought so. After all, Derek had to only flare his nostrils, and he knew that another werewolf was nearby. Surely, reassuring one human would be no problem. The look on Derek's face said otherwise. His eyebrows were pulled together, and his mouth had that little winkle it got when it turned down in worry. It made Stiles huddle in on himself, confused and messed up, and scared out of his fucking mind. Derek knew it too. Stiles could tell, the moment Derek looked him over. He saw a boy, shaking and out of his mind with fear. He saw a packmate in need of help, in need of Derek. 

That's really what it was all about. Pack. They were supposed to be there. They were supposed to take care of each other. Pack had each other's backs. And Derek's hands were currently on Stiles' back, herding him into the loft, shaking his head, like a dog trying to get water off it's fur. "Inside." He grunted, and Stiles obliged, shuffling inside, moving slow, and disjointed. It shouldn't have scared him this bad. So what if a crazy guy had corned him and babbled at him about fae and winter court and seelie or unseelie, or whatever it was. Who cared. It had nothing to do with Stiles. Except it did.

 

Except Morgan was coming back, the moment he was eighteen. Except that he'd been so strong. He'd held Stiles down easy as if he was made of paper. Stiles was no cardboard cutout, for fuck's sake. He had fought werewolves, Kanimas, Druids, Demons- Stiles had fought and scrapped and made it out alive. And he'd been helpless. 

 

He hadn't been able to do anything, when he was cornered. If it was Derek, Stiles thought viciously, Morgan would be in pieces right now. Morgan would be a pile of flesh and bits. He wouldn't exist, because Derek would have destroyed him. Derek was strong. And that was probably why Morgan had picked Stiles to go after. Pick off the weak before fighting the strong. Stiles hated being the weak. He hated that all his strength, all his hard earned battle knowledge was nothing,  _nothing_

Compared to them, he himself was nothing. Them, being the supernatural. The damned, damned supernatural, with their strength and speed, ten times what any human boy could hope to achieve. Stiles was trying so hard and still, he was the weak link. And he had accepted it. He was the weak one, the one who made jokes in the background and came up with the plans to keep them alive. He was valuable, and part of the pack. But even though no one would ever say it aloud- Stiles was weak. In a fight, he'd be dead in seconds. He wasn't a warrior.

So he relied on Derek to be his brawn. And to tell him he wasn't going out of his mind, again. Because it had made sense. Just for a moment. It had made sense that he was a fae. That he wasn't human. All the things Morgan had said- Stiles really had hated his name his whole life. He was completely at home in the woods. Fearless when it came to the supernatural- He was part of their world. He was one of them.

No. No, he wasn't, he was human, and nothing was going to change that. The back of his mind whispered to him, telling him to look up the word changeling, to see how it fit, to see how it was him- and he refused. Instead, he backed Derek into a corner, and looked up at him, with crazed, scared eyed. "Am I human." It wasn't a question anymore. It was a desperate hope. Stating human like it was a fact, like it was what he was. 

Derek just looked at him. Big green changeable eyes, watching Stiles as Stiles crowded up against him, so close their chests were touching. So close that he could feel every intake of Derek's breath. It was almost intimate, seeing every color in those forest eyes. The flecks of gold and brown and blue, like a summers day in the woods. If he'd been in a better state of mind, he'd had flushed red, knowing that this was kissing distance. This was so close that one dip of Derek's head could lead to lips pressing against each other, warm and soft and pliant. Derek dipped his head.

To shove his nose in Stiles' neck. It wasn't like Stiles thought it would be. He'd thought it would be awkward, and cold, and make him want to shudder away. Like holding a wriggling puppy, and having it shove it's nose into your neck, wet and snuffling. It wasn't like that at all.

Pressed against the tendon on the curve of Stiles' neck, Derek's nose inhaled. Soft breaths, with exhales that tickled against Stiles' skin, like a wind of sensation, spreading from his neck to his whole body, leaving him warm and tingling. And Derek's nose wasn't warm at all. Instead it was a light touch, up and down his neck, just breathing him in. Over and over again. Stiles didn't move a muscle until it was done and over, and Derek had lifted his head. Stiles could still feel him. Could still feel the way the skin of his nose felt, rubbing up against the tender skin of Stiles' throat.

"So what's the verdict, Big Guy?" He wanted to stay strong. Be mentally strong, even though he wasn't, physically. He couldn't be the weak one always. He couldn't be weak in everything he did. He had one thing. One thing that made him part of this. That made them need him. And that was his mind. He was a tough cookie. He took in werewolves and turned his belief into unconditional alliance. But someone that strong threatening him scrambled his brains a bit. And that wasn't good. His voice wasn't steady.

"You don't smell like any Fae I've ever met." Stiles let out a sigh of relief, and it seemed to diminish his entire body. It was like all the anxiety and the terror and the worry had puffed him up so big, and now that it was gone he was empty and hollow and small. It was only Derek's strong hands on his shoulders that kept him upright. He'd been so scared. He wasn't ready for this. For being part of the nightmare world permanently.

Secretly, he had always known. If he wanted to, if he ever lost Scott, lost his absolute loyalty to his pack- he could run. Anywhere else he wanted, he was just a human. He could go to college, live a normal life. A werewolf, would always be fighting. He knew that. There would always be someone there, someone who knew you were a wolf, who wanted something. Magic, territory, the bite, to be an Alpha- there were so many reasons.

And fear. There would always be that edge of fear. Fear of being discovered and burned at the stake by humans. Fear of losing control and killing someone. It was too complicated. It was too scary. And Stiles, as a human, could run from it.

No one wanted to fight a human. A human didn't have anything worth fighting for. They just milled about, thousands of them, going about their normal lives as beings from their nightmares walked among them. Stiles, could be one of those people. He didn't always have to fight for his life. He could melt into the crowd. Pretend to be oblivious to all of this. And people would accept that. He could go back to being normal. He could go back to a human, uncomplicated life.

"But you don't smell human, either." Derek's voice cut through Stiles' inner monologue of relief. It didn't just cut through, it sliced and diced it, turned it into scraps. Derek was obviously confused, running a hand through his hair, blinking a few times, rubbing his nose. It was obvious, that Derek was nervous. Obvious to Stiles, at least.

Not many people would know this, because not many people dedicated entire pack meetings to observing the one and only Derek Hale. But Stiles had. Usually, Derek was still. Still and tensed, like a predator just before a kill. Ready to swipe and fight at any second. When he moved, he was fluid and fast, and his footsteps were so soft and muffled that he could sneak up on just about everyone. Stiles had jumped ten feet in the air the last time he did it. Derek was still not done mocking him for the way he'd landed, legs akimbo, mouth open and swearing, hair mussed and tangled.

All that, that was usually. Right now, Derek was fidgeting. Actually fidgeting. He was moving his hands, gripping his hair, or his hip, thumbing under his nose, rubbing his hands together. He was so nervous. And Stiles didn't think he'd like what was making Derek so Un Derek-like. "You don't smell like anything."

Abridging his last sentence, Derek clarified with his next words, his voice low and unwavering. He looked Stiles in the eye, held him up by the shoulders. "You smell like your dad, and your house, and the shampoo you use. Peaches and Cream. You smell of Jungle and booze and someone else-" Derek's eyes flashed at that, but his continued on. "You have all the normal scents- but beneath it, there's nothing. Blank slate."

"What does that mean?" Stiles' voice was bordering on a shriek, and Derek had to squeeze his shoulders to communicate wordlessly that he needed to calm down. "What does that mean, Derek." His voice was a little less accusatory this time, but his eyes still held wildfire, and his hands still shook.

"What did he call you?" 

The question came out of the blue. Stiles hadn't even thought of that. He had been too busy thinking of strong hands holding him back, keeping him from escape. Entrancing eyes. A voice telling him he wasn't him, he wasn't human. He had latched onto that. Onto 'Not human', instead of what Morgan had said he actually was. But he knew. And something inside him pushed the word out, in a tone of voice he didn't really know the name for. It was silvery and warm and cold and it made his vocal cords fizz like he'd just gulped down and entire can of coke.

"A changeling."

It was then, that Stiles knew. Not because of his voice. But because of the way Derek's face tightened and lifted, the way it always did when something clicked into place. The way he nodded, hard, a jerk of his head, like some unseen puppeteer was yanking it up and down. Then, he picked Stiles up.

It didn't even occur to Stiles to struggle. He'd had a tough day, and Derek generally didn't hurt him too bad, and he really, really, just didn't want to have to fight right now. So he let it happen. It was actually kind of comfortable. Derek holding him like a bride. His head lolled back and looked up at the other man, grinning because if he didn't laugh, he'd cry. If he didn't crack a joke, he felt like he'd crack himself. Go crazy. Shake the walls down. Scream. Sob. 

So he joked. "Wow, if I'd known telling you I might be magic got me free rides on the muscular werewolf train, I'd have done it a long time ago. What really turns you on? How about a vampire. We can roleplay Twilight." His voice was shaky and high, and when Derek looked down at him with those unfathomable green eyes, he turned his head. He didn't want to see Derek pitying him. But when he was looking back at him, there was no pity in Derek's eyes. No fear. He didn't speak. Didn't throw a snarky reply Stiles' way. It wasn't time for that. It wasn't time for banter. It would just feel empty and fake. And it wouldn't make Stiles feel any stronger. 

Derek Set him down in front of a computer, and Stiles, on instinct, grabbed it. He was the computer guy. Derek hardly even knew how to get to his email. He was pitiful. When he was still living in subways and burnt houses, there wasn't much in way of electricity, so Stiles doubted if Derek had ever really used technology from this century. That's why he had Stiles, to take care of that for him. 

"I want you to look up the words changeling. So you can see for yourself." The computer lit up when Stiles lifted the screen. Blue. Then a desktop, set to pictures of the pack together. Stiles had put it up. He tried not to notice that Derek had somehow managed to make him the center of the image. He didn't like looking at pictures of himself. Made him realize things he didn't want to know. Like the cowlick behind his ear or the way his forehead was just a bit too big. But he was there, alright. The Google homepage couldn't come up fast enough.

C. H. A. N. G. E. L. I. N. G. The letter clicked as he typed them, one by one, his long fingers dexterous and sure. This was his thing, after all. Research. It was what he was good at. Damn good at. He could dive into the deep dark recesses of the internet and pull things up from the depths to provide information for the pack. This time, he was doing it for himself.

Changeling. A child, faery made, left in place of a human child. A swapped out consolation prize. The faeries would steal the human babe to be raised in their courts, and leave a fae child in it's place. A fae child, made of magic, specifically to match the human child that had been taken. The website went on to list signs that your child had been stolen, and a changeling left in it's place. It said that changelings were known to cause mischief, would often take off to the woods, as it reminded them of their fae home. That changelings would play tricks on humans. They had a voracious appetite. Clever and wild. 

In nearly every myth, when the child, the Changeling, came of age- it disappeared. The parents would search and search, but they would be gone. Back to their people. Because they weren't meant to be in the human world in the first place. They were fae. Not birthed, not real. Just a proxy, a stand in, for the human child. Made, so that the fae would never get caught, stealing the human babes.

Scrawny, ill tempered, foul mouthed- There was no better description for Stiles Stilinski. It was all there, down on the website. Had him pinned down. It was him.

Deaton had always said that Stiles had a spark. He hadn't explained it then, hadn't said a word. And Stiles had just rolled with it. A spark that would appear now and again when they were in danger, a spark that, supposedly, made him some kind of magic. It was little, and it was mostly useless, but the spark- was most likely faery magic inside of him. Deaton had probably known the whole time. Known what Stiles was. Inhuman. Wrong.

For a moment, Stiles couldn't breathe. He wasn't his father's child. He wasn't real. He was a substitute, created out of magic and shoved into a cradle in place of the baby that was supposed to be there. His mother, had never gotten to see her real son grow up. All she'd had was the fake fae child. Stiles wasn't her son. He couldn't breathe. Everything was closing in on him. He wasn't her child. He didn't belong in his family. He was fake. Fake. 

"Stiles. The hell are you thinking? That's not true." Oh. Had he said that all out loud? Derek sounded so worried. Worried for Stiles? No. Probably more worried that he'd have to deal with an entirely new supernatural burden.

Derek had to drag the computer away, and smack it closed, because Stiles was still working, his fingers flying across the keyboard, letters blurring on the screen. he was still moving the mouse, he was still researching. Derek got it all away from him. 

Derek didn't pick Stiles up this time. Stiles had expected he would hoist him up on his shoulder, like a big, masculine werewolf, showing off his strength. Shove him on the bed, tell him to rest up and shut up, sternly ordering Stiles to take care of himself, but never offering to do the taking care for him. He expected that hard, 'take care of your own shit' approach to comfort. He got something else.

Derek, shoved his nose in his neck again.

"You smell like Stiles." He said softly. "You smell like the burger and fries you had earlier. I can't smell your blocked arteries, but I'm sure they're there, now. Smell like your shampoo. Peaches and cream. Smell like dessert. You smell like the Jungle, and your awful Axe deodorant that you think makes you sexy-"

"It does." Stiles' voice was barely more than a whisper.

"The deodorant isn't what makes you sexy." Derek shut him down, and then did something with his nose that was almost a nuzzle. His big hands were on Stiles' shoulder again. This time, they were rubbing. Very gently, easy and soft. A circular motion that eased some of his tension. "You smell like your house." Stiles stiffened, but Derek went on, determined. "You smell like your dad. Your dad. Who loves you. You, Stiles. Whatever you are, you're still Stiles. Our Stiles. You belong with us. Faery or human." 

He had a point. His dad had never known any other son than Stiles. His mom hadn't either. And still- and still, it felt like they loved him. She'd loved him. She'd loved him a lot. But she'd never gotten to meet her real son. The one she gave birth to, the one she was supposed to have. She had loved Stiles. His dad still loved Stiles. But it was wrong. He wasn't the one they were meant to love.

He lifted his head and looked Derek dead in the eye. "Tell me you're sure I don't smell human'

Jostled from his position at Stiles' neck, Derek lowered his eyes. It took him a moment to bring his stare up to meet Stiles'. "You don't smell human. Or Fae. But if this is true- it you were made of magic. It makes sense. You wouldn't have a particular scent."

Nodding, Stiles squared his shoulders, and stood up. "Okay. Let's go."

Warily, Derek rose to his feet, and Stiles warmed at his loyalty. Even though he didn't know what Stiles was about to get him into, he was ready to go. Ready to follow a crazy human- Well. Not so human, on another endeavor that may or may not be the thing that finally caused him to lose his life. He didn't even pause. He was on Stiles' side. No matter what came. No matter what happened. He was on Stiles' side. And that gave Stiles the courage to answer, when Derek asked: "Go where?"

"We're going to get the real me. The baby stolen from my mom and dad. We're going to get him back from the fae. And we're going to bring him home."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So sorry it's been so long! Life has been kicking me in my pert little buttocks, and writing just hasn't been a priority. But I'm back, and I'm here, and by Gods, this story is going to end up finished, one way or another.

"You know this is a bad plan." Stiles adjusted the strap of his backpack, fingers digging into the rough polyester surface, and turned his head to send a venomous glare at the werewolf trailing behind him. Derek was still in his sweatpants, and a t-shirt, like he was about to climb into bed, clap the lights off, and snooze for a few more hours. Unfortunately, there's no rest for the wicked. Or the werewolf. 

Because unfortunately, this particular werewolf had managed to get attached to Stiles. And that meant waking up in the wee hours of the morning to comfort him when he was shaking apart, and then going on an adventure that would likely resolve in both their deaths mere hours later. It was no wonder Stiles had always had such a wide and varied group of friends. Catch the sarcasm. He knew he was an asshole for doing this to Derek. But-.

"It's a fantastic plan, you're just looking at it through neon werewolf eyes, and therefore cannot comprehend it's sheer brilliance. So shut up." 

"We should be taking Scott, and the rest of the pack."

Rolling his eyes as well as a soccer ball during the playoffs, Stiles shook his head fiercely. "I don't want them getting hurt because of me, and my stupid issues. This is a one man mission. Or it would be, if you would just leave me the hell alone, mutt." 

He wondered if his heart sped up, or missed a beat, and Derek could tell that Stiles was lying. Or, not really lying. Was it lying, not to tell someone how you really feel? A lie by omission. A lie to not say that he wanted Derek to come with him. That he was scared of being all alone, and God, he didn't want to die because the people who made him were baby stealing psychopaths.

Derek must have picked up on that, because his expression was almost gentle when he stepped forwards to invade Stiles' personal space, the way he always did in a tense situation. "The chances of me leaving you to go on a one man mission- which is more like a suicide mission, by the way- is about the same as the chances of you winning the powerball and becoming a billionaire."

"Zero to none?"

"Zero to none."

Lips turned up in a smile just on the edge of manic, Stiles socked Derek in the arm, with no real force. Not like his noodle arms could deliver a punch that would phase a werewolf anyways. "Careful, Derek. You actually went into a full fledged sentence there. If you don't quit it, I might think that you care." His response was a pointed growl, and a raise of Derek's eyebrows, like he was laughing. Whether at Stiles, or with him, Stiles would never know.

It had to be just him and Derek, doing this. Stiles knew that Derek, as a werewolf, thought that going lone wolf was madness, but, that was how it was going to be. Because everyone else in the pack had something important to do with their lives. Scott, he was going to be a vet, and a fantastic Alpha, and he was going to fix the whole world with a puppy dog smile. Lydia, was going to take over the whole world, and hold it in her perfectly manicured fingertips. Parrish was a cop, and he was going to keep the streets clean, and his Sheriff honest about how many donuts he'd eaten. 

They all had something important. They, themselves, were all important. And Stiles couldn't bring himself to involve them in a fight that wasn't theirs. 

They could fight, sure. But the only reason any of them had ever fought was because they had to. They had to fight to stay alive, to keep other people dying. They had to fight because baddie of the month had come into their town breathing fire and stomping around. They had to fight because they had no other option. They were werewolves and hellhounds and banshees, and lying low wasn't possible.

With this, they didn't have to fight. There was no actual reason, to fight. All Morgan wanted was Stiles. And even then, who was to say that they'd kill, maim, or otherwise harm him? Hell, maybe changelings were treated like Gods in the Fae world. Maybe they were showered with gold and silk and milkshakes. Chocolate mint chip.

Maybe, even, the humans in the faery court weren't treated so bleakly. Maybe they weren't slaves, trudging around with chains around their wrists and ankles, sooty from sleeping in the fireplace, trying to get some warmth. Maybe they were clothed and fed and supremely happy. Maybe they couldn't be more content with the way their life had gone. Maybe they didn't want to leave. Maybe this was all a stupid, selfish plan.

But Stiles couldn't stop thinking about it. Thinking about how mothers and fathers were given these fake, magic children, and they loved them. They honestly loved them, no matter how much trouble that child caused. They were the ones who held them when they fell down, and scraped their knees. The kissed the boo boo and put a batman band-aid on it. They cuddled when they watch Disney movies, and stroked their babies hair, and worked to the bone to make sure their child never had to want for anything. And then. Then their kid turned eighteen, and poof. They were gone.

The baby they'd held when they were squalling. The toddler who's first word was mama. They cried for that kid on the first day of kindergarten. They'd attended bake sales and gone to terrible elementary school plays. In middle school, they cried with their kid the first time they realized what unhappiness meant. Through the teenage years they fought and cried and didn't understand anything about each other. But in those awful, hard, teenage years, they still tucked that kid in, when they were passed out drunk on the couch, and stroked their hair, and said 'I love you'.

And at the end of all that. All eighteen years of love. Their child was yanked away and never to be seen again. Sure. The kid wasn't human, they weren't what they were supposed to be. In a perfect world, they would have their human baby, and they'd be going through all that for a good fifty years. But instead, this is what they got. They got a face on the milk carton, and pain. A lot of pain. 

As for the changeling- how were they supposed to adapt? Without their family, their friends, their home, the couch that sunk in around them when they sat down. They were snatched into a whole new world, just like that human baby had been.

It was wrong. And Stiles had grown up with a Sheriff for a father. He had a damn strong sense of justice. This was wrong. This was right. And sure, there were grey areas. He broke the law as often as he stuck to it. But he only ever did that to save someone, to find something, to do something good. His own sense of morality was probably skewed as fuck, and not at all due north, but that didn't matter. He knew this was wrong, what the fae were doing. And he knew that he and Derek could stop it.

So what if Morgan was strong? He wasn't as strong as Derek Hale. Derek Hale who'd come out of a fire howling and clawing, who'd grown up knowing what pain meant, who had built himself up and tore his enemies down. Derek Hale was the single strongest creature that Stiles had ever known. And Stiles knew that nothing, no fae, no wolf, no druid, was going to take Derek Hale down.

Mostly because if anyone, anyone, tried to take Derek down, they would have one pissed off human on their hands. And sure. Stiles had scrawny arms and scrawny legs and could probably be broken like a twig, but he was also a fighter. A scrapper. And for Derek, he would fight like a hellcat, bat in one hand, wolfsbane in the other.

"So. Here's the deal. I've done my research, right? I know my shit. And before we start this fiesta, we've got a grocery list." Stiles whipped it out as proudly as he would have flung out a scroll from the library of Alexandria, God rest it's little library soul. 

"Your handwriting is illegible. What do they teach you in that school of yours?"

"How to type on a computer. A skill you could use, old man." Derek's scowl was a present all it's own, and Stiles grinned at him widely, laughing like Derek had just cracked a joke so funny that a master comedian would be rolling on the floor laughing, with tears in their eyes. But his apparent delight in Derek's anger just made Derek's face tighten all the more, his eyebrows pulling together, much to Stiles' amusement.

"I have a plan. Beyond actually running headfirst into enemy territory and trying to play a one man army. Listen, I don't know how much of the information I have is true, but we're just going to go with it, right? First of all- Iron. Cold iron. It's like fae wolfsbane. Burns them. People used to put scissors and nails over their babies cribs to prevent- well. Me. Changelings."

Stiles had to swallow the lump in his throat before he went on. Derek's silent, supportive presence kept him grounded, and Derek pointed to the list. "Alright. So. Scissors."

"No. Better." Stiles' grin had gone maniacal, almost Joker like. "We're getting me a cast iron bat."

The look on Derek's face was enough for Stiles to continue, scowling. "A sword was too expensive, okay? And I don't know how to swing it. It was the bat or a golf club, and I was in little league. I was like, the star player. Everyone was so hydrated. No thirst on my watch. I was prime water boy material."

"I'm storming a fae stronghold with an idiot."

"You love me."

"I tolerate you."

"Close enough." Stiles nudged his hip into Derek's, and tilted his head towards the man's shoulder, eyes glowing. He was pumped full of adrenaline, and nerves, Derek seemed solid as an oak. It was only logical to lean into him. "But that's just weapons. I've got my bat. You've got your claws. Now, here's where it gets interesting. Pay attention."

"I need you to navigate me to a faery ring. A perfectly circular group of mushrooms. Any fungi will do, Derek, I just need it to be a ring. If all the grass in the circle in dead, we're in even better shape. So, you act as my sniffer dog, and then, we can cross over. Most likely." Stiles shook his head, and scratched the back of his neck, fidgeting, trying to explain this without sounding completely insane. "See, Morgan wants me home, right? So they'll take me. And you're a wolf. According to most of the lore, the faery court includes everyone of magical descent. That includes you, wolfman. So, we get in. Easy."

"Then it gets hard. We have to pretend to be playing along. Pretend that everything's cool, and we're just happy to be there. I don't know how we rank, among, you know, the fae. We might be servant class. If so, we've just got to suck it up and was dishes and dirty houses, because man, if we're in, we can spy." Stiles was gesticulating wildly, talking as much with his hands as he did with his mouth. "We learn the system. We find allies, people who think the same as we do."

That was chancy. Who knew if people thought that the changeling process was wrong? Who knew if they would even come to Stiles' aid? They might turn him in just for talking about it. It was worth the risk. "Humans, other changelings, anyone who wants to go home to the human world. We organize a jailbreak. And we get the fuck out of there, and run so far they never get their sparkly little claws in us every again."

"You really think this will work?"

Stiles' eyes were fire and brimstone, and he drew himself up to his full height, just as tall as Derek. He hefted his backpack, full of iron and other hastily researched faery kryptonites, full of everything he'd take into the fae world, his clothes and laptop and life, up onto his shoulders more firmly. He stared Derek down like he would a predator thinking of pouncing on him. He made himself as strong as iron, as burning as a flame. As large and strong as a California redwood. 

"If it doesn't, we're dead. This plan has to work. Failure is not an option. I am not dying without completing my bucket list. I swear on everything important to me, Derek Hale, this plan is going to work, and we're going to live to see the grand canyon, and go to comic con."

"I've seen the grand canyon. Not impressive. Neither is comic con.:

"I'm going to kick your ass."

"Save it for the fae."


	4. Chapter 4

Imagining fairyland, the first thought that came to Stiles' mind, was Disney. Dwarves in their neat little cottage, pixies flitting about, making homes in bluebells and daffodils. Elves emerging from trees that reached to the sky like castle turrets. Goblins burying themselves in swamps. Treehouses galore. Dark forests and bright meadows and a place frozen in time, before man began to rip up the grass and the roots and the world. Jurassic park, sans dinosaurs and general gladiator zoo vibe. Here Stiles was stuck thinking of Disney in it's prime, fantasy and whimsy. What he got was the It's a small world ride.

The moment that he and Derek emerged from their little fairy ring teleportation, which had given Stiles a whole new understanding of why Harry Potter had hated apparating with a fiery passion, they were surrounded by voices. Jambo, Nihao, Hello, Bonjour- And 'Oi'. 

Stiles did not want to hear the word 'Oi.' when he was this close to puking on the very clean linoleum floor. Stiles wanted to hear 'Here's a bucket, I promise we're not hell's DMV." Because from where he was standing, it looked like it. Lines as far as the eye could see. Tired children, mothers with hair that stuck out in frizzy, frazzled clumps, teenagers that slunk around like the world would stop being crappy and depressing if they just put enough effort into their intense and athletic lurking. But none of them had taken creeping to the olympics like Derek Hale.

Derek Hale who currently had his claws unsheathed, and was doing much more analytical gawking than Stiles. Stiles had been obsessed with the lines and the bored retail store employee tone of every single worker in every single language, and the kids that had reminded him of Derek. Derek was concentrating on something more important. The fact that the guy in front of them was green.

You read that right. Green. And Stiles wasn't talking Vulcan green, like a touch of olive to the complexion. He was talking 'Give a Christmas tree a run for it's money' green. He was talking Evergreen. His ears were pointed, his eyes were yellow and watery, and he was clad in a fuzzy bathrobe of a color that can only be described as Intense. He was pudgy, had a handsome face, and Stiles could still not get over the fact that this man, was green. So green. 

"Holy shit!"

"Definitely Americans. You're in the right place. Though, if you'd waited for a reasonable hour-" It turned out, a glare failed to be baleful when coming from eyes the color of a lemon skittle. "Perhaps I might have been able to greet you in proper glamour. I suppose it must be startling, your first time out." He peered up at Stiles, like a Grandfather that was both concerned, and irritable. "Obviously this one is suffering from some kind of shock. Or is he always like this? Gawping?" The question was directed at Derek.

Stiles' splutters of indignation did not save him from Derek's almost gleeful answer as claws were sheathed. "Both the expression, and intelligence of a goldfish." Stiles had never been so offended in his life. Not the insult. But the fact that Derek was chatting amiably with what was obviously Beast Boy going through a rough retirement. Like they were old friends. Derek wasn't even trying to be threatening anymore. Instead, the traitor, he had an expression on his face and a tone to his voice like they were at a tea party, just sitting down to a steaming hot mug. Unacceptable. 

"Like you can talk, Cujo. You come to a new place and the first thing you do is threaten violence to this perfectly nice-" He stuttered out of the sentence, while both Derek and Beast Boy looked at him expectantly, awaiting a burn of epic proportions. A burn that sizzled. A conclusion like the combustion of ten suns, a truly magnificent- He had nothing. Nothing. He had no clue what the hell this Jolly Green Midget was. "Person. With your claws. Rawr." Lame. So lame.

They were so unimpressed their faces might as well be next to the word in the dictionary, thesaurus, and wikipedia page. "Ghillie Dhu, Goldfish. I'm a Ghillie Dhu." Blank. Stiles was blank. And it must have showed on his face, whereas Derek's shown in recognition, and he actually bowed his head a bit. Which only made the insufferable little creature puff out like a bird of paradise looking to attract a mate. Oh, God, Stiles hoped to God Green Goblin wasn't looking for a mate. "One of the many changelings you'll find in Realm."

"Um, no. Changelings are me." A roll of eyes. A sneer. An exasperated, slightly embarrassed huff from Derek. 

"He's- We, are new." He explained it like an apology. And where Stiles had gotten nothing but an eye roll that was so grandiose it could only be imitated in his world by the world's largest ball of yarn tumbling down a mountain- Derek got a soft little smile, and a fatherly pat on the hand.

"No harm done, no harm done. It's my job, isn't it lad. What a polite young man you are." Cue the look of disdain towards Stiles. He felt a literal withering in his nethers, the disdain was so strong, so palpable in the air, like a miasma of disappointment. "And Morgan himself went to get this one. What a- surprise." Stiles got the distinct impression that it was more a pity than a surprise. "In the human world, you have many races, yes? Many traditions, many cultures, many colors. Though none so fine as mine, I should hazard." Preening again. Stiles had never hated the color of broccoli more. And that was saying a lot. He'd once devised a literal trap door so he could get it off his plate.

"Changelings are much the same. You're a primary changeling. A being of pure magic. Disguised in the undesirable-" 

"Hey!"

"Unremarkable, form of a human. But changelings change. It's in the name, if you'd done any thinking at all about it. You changed from magic to human. I changed from tree to what you see here. Pookas can change their form at will- so on, and so forth. Changelings are a varied, and proud race. Most of us, anyways." Ah, the contempt. Stiles had missed it for that one sentence that didn't completely illustrate the sheer scorn on the other changeling's face. 

"I am your Changeling guide. Here to help you acclimate and adjust to Fae society. I'll double as your general consul and guru of all things Fae, and Fae related. Now, shall we begin?"

No. He and Derek should run away before they got trapped here forever. They should make a break for it. Smash through this demented Disneyland ride, get the hell out of dodge, and never deal with this condescending little ogre again. Adjust to Fae society? Sounded a little too much like the human world. What next? A job? A shitty apartment? Was he about to be forced into becoming a contributing member of society? Oh, God. The horrors. The untold horrors. 

Unfortunately, Derek Hale knew him well enough to know that his silence, and lack of ten million questions, meant that he was two seconds away from bolting like he running from a demon with teeth in places that one should never, ever, ever have teeth. And he felt two hands come down on his shoulders. Both steeling him, trapping him here, in the moment, and steadying him. It was Derek's way of saying, through gritted teeth 'This was your idea. Follow through' without making a single sound. It was also Derek's way of saying 'I'm with you. I'm right behind you. Got your back'. 

It made Stiles straighten up. Square his shoulders. Set his jaw. Ready for battle. "Let's do this." 

Yellow eyes had narrowed slightly at the way that Derek had moved behind Stiles, and Stiles, for a moment, remembering his little bird's of paradise blurb, wondered if the Ghillie Dhu was actually jealous- but then the green lines that had sunk deep into his face, more like bark etchings than wrinkles, smoothed out. "It's odd that a changeling comes here early. Or with an escort, at that. A werewolf escort. Unconventional indeed." But the way his voice rose and fell made it sound a little bit more like Stiles had done something extraordinary, rather than extremely bad, wrong, and awful.

"I'm staying with him." Derek piped up, and unlike the even tone of their guide, his voice was so firm it could have been one of his taunt, muscled asscheeks. Don't think about his ass, don't think about his ass- Derek looked at him and Stiles thought for a good two agonizing moments he'd been caught, and that the wolf had developed telepathy the moment he set foot in fairyland. But then Derek just squeezed his shoulder a bit harder. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to make his meaning clear. He hadn't even needed words to convey 'Whether you like it or not'. Yeah. Stick it to the man, Derek.

Scandalized, a long fingered hand fluttered at the green changeling's throat, and he shook his head emphatically. "I'd never!" He yowled, as though the very concept offended him. "Never separate the two of you. Packmates, obviously. I'd have to be some sort of savage! And a wolf from the Hale line- I knew your family back when they were still in the old country, you know. Ages and ages ago." His entire posture softened, whereas Derek went slightly stiff. He leaned in, to whisper to Derek conspiratorially, as though Stiles weren't sandwiched between them and listening to every word. 

"Wulver has always been my favorite bloodline, you know. Such good people. Never a war started, not by them." His large green dome of a head shook sadly, a few of the brown, brittle hairs that clung to his scalp like dying leaves flopping about. Stiles watched them wave, as they danced a merry jig in the air. "Such good people. Nothing like Lycaon's bloodline, or Fenrir's. Kind, helpful, excellent fishermen-" 

As their little green friend waxed poetic on Derek's relatives, Derek got more and more sheepish, ducking his head in a way that was unmistakably pleased, if a little (a lot) pained. And Stiles just stood there, mouth open. He'd never known about any of this. But here Ghillie was, talking about bloodlines and Fenrir and Lycaon- In his world, werewolves were werewolves. They went fuzzy, they howled at the moon, if they bit you, you'd better start praying to the Gods of your choice. Here, apparently, it was different.

Whirling around to glare up at the taller man, Stiles basically pushed Ghillie out of the way, who made a sound that wouldn't have been out of place from a stodgy Victorian butler. He then proceeded to scrunch up his face to it's most intimidating. Which, on a level of intimidating, was roughly between puppy growls and baby tantrums. Completely ineffectual, and ranging from either cute to horrendously annoying. "Your explanation needs to include bullet points, references, and preferably, a powerpoint presentation. One, how does he know who you are. Two. Bloodlines. Three. Wulver. Four- why did I know none of this."

Of course, Ghillie couldn't seem to resist a chance to both butt in, and talk more about how perfect the Hales were. "Well, obviously, he thought you were a human. One doesn't simply go telling humans all about the history of faekind." Hurt, Stiles stared up at Derek. He was pack. He had the bestiary. He was their researcher, their go to guy- he'd kind of thought he had the corner office on supernatural knowledge. And here it turned out that Derek knew and entire history of his people, and kept it all to himself? 

Stiles was suddenly realizing just how much he underestimated Derek. Just how much he and Scott had ignored him, and his offers of help and guidance. To the point where Derek had just- stopped offering it. How much he didn't know. How much Derek did. And sure, Derek's guidance was absolute crap sometimes. But that didn't mean that Stiles shouldn't have asked him questions. Picked his brain, instead of trawling unsavory sites on the internet in the middle of the night. He'd been kind of a bad packmate. But the look on Derek's face was panicked enough that Stiles knew he probably thought Stiles was hurt because he hadn't spilled the beans to him the moment he met him.

In reality, Stiles was hurt because Derek had offered information. When Kira popped up, who knew what a Kitsune was? When Scott started having control issues, who was it that extended a hand in peace? He knew Deaton was a Druid, had probably known Lydia was a banshee- Derek had a lot more experience, and amassed intelligence on the supernatural subject than anyone had ever given him credit for. And here Stiles was, thinking that he was the top dog in monsters and myths.

He felt kind of stupid, he felt kind of foolish, and he felt a little bit warm that Derek rushed to reassure him. "I didn't finish my training, I don't know everything. Just the basics. And we were always in a fight with something more important than a history lesson, so I-" Stiles wanted to hug him. Because that sentence said so much. He almost did, gravitating closer, his eyes soft and warm and apologetic. He was so close. He could count Derek's eyelashes. Just a bit further. 

"And It's perfectly improper. Improper is just what it is. It's not as though you would educate him on changeling culture just out of the blue! That is a private, and intensely personal matter, if I should say so!" 

With the promise of death and darkness in his eyes, Stiles loomed over Ghillie, casting a shadow over a chubby green form, turning the Intense bathrobe just a little less vivid. He had interrupted their Moment. They were having a Moment. Capital M. Actually, scratch that. Not having. About to have. Until it was ruined. Until it was torn apart by propriety. Derek had sprung back from Stiles at the first syllable, like a cat confronted with a spray bottle. And Stiles, was fuming. The one time it had seemed like Derek would let him hug him without putting his teeth painfully deep inside Stiles' fragile, easily harmed flesh, and it was ruined. By a glorified stalk of celery. 

Unfortunately, none of Derek's supreme skills at displays of rage had rubbed off on Stiles, because Ghillie continued on, completely oblivious. Or, at least, uncaring. "No, as your guide, I'll be the one informing you about all this. Again, like changelings- there are many different werewolves. Fenrir's bloodline, descended from the infamous Norse harbinger of the apocalypse. Violent lot, that. Keep your hands to yourself, if you want to keep them. Lycaon's- Now that, is a nasty bunch if I ever saw one. Descended from a Greek King, turned wolf because he tried to feed the Gods human meat." Ghillie shuddered at that, and Stiles felt a distinct shiver down his spine, too. End of the world and Hannibal Lecter. Fantastic, so far.

"Derek here, his bloodline is very old. But not quite as large or famous as the others. Wulver. A Scottish werewolf clan, that mostly lived peacefully, fishing at their rock, and occasionally leaving their catchings to families in need of a meal. Never started a fight." His eyes met Derek's, twinkling. For the first time, Stiles was taken aback at how malicious a twinkle in someone's eye could look. "But we Celts-we'd finish them, aye?" Derek nodded, gravely. The yellow gaze, now devoid of all previous malevolent gleaming, slid back to Stiles. 

"That's how I recognize him. That mark on his back isn't just for other werewolves. It's a pack mark recognized by all the fae. Now, of course, there are several other werewolf bloodlines. Loup Garou. The Benandanti werewolves- keep your witch friends far from those, I'll tell you that- Hombre lobo, which, contrary to the name, is a matriarchal line. Loves jewelry. They're right up there with dragons in terms of amassed riches, and so very powerful because of it-"

"Dragons?" Stiles had never heard his voice squeak like that. 

"Yes, dragons, keep up, laddybuck. Now where was I?" Luckily for Stiles, who might have been in actual danger of his brain spontaneously combusting and turning into little tiny bits of brain juice and grey matter, Derek stepped in.

"He has enough to learn today. Do me a favor? Teach him all about changelings, so that he doesn't start pestering me about werewolves the moment you leave us." The look of sympathy was almost offensive, if Stiles wasn't so relieved at the reprieve from all this information. But from the sparkle of pride in Ghillie's eye, he knew that reprieve would be short lived. 

"Of course, of course. I've kept you in this awful place far too long, far too long indeed. Come now, come." His slippers smacked against the linoleum floor. The chatter in all languages began to filter back into Stiles' ears, now that he wasn't actively tuning it out in favor of concentrating on something else. He followed, blindly. Derek followed with caution. Ghillie tromped right up to the doors with the same level of brimming anticipation, and joy, as if he were opening the pearly gates themselves. He grinned at Stiles and Derek with sharp teeth, and in one tug, the doors came creaking open.

"Welcome to the Realm, laddies."

"Holy shit."

And for the first time, Stiles heard Derek's voice echo back to him, just as breathless, just as awed. "Holy shit."


	5. Chapter 5

Colors he never knew existed. Scents that somehow combined the most unlikely of aromas, like vanilla ice cream and steak sauce. Sounds and feelings and even just the taste of the air- Stiles had spent so much of his life surrounded by actual magic that he'd forgotten how it felt. How it felt to stand in awe of something, how it felt to be so utterly and totally consumed with the concept of magic. If where he'd first ended up was the it's a small world ride, dark and cramped and endless droning- this was the castle. This was experiencing a kind of wonder he hadn't felt since he was nothing but a kid with mickey mouse ears perched precariously on his head.

And if he was overwhelmed, Derek looked doubly so. Stiles couldn't imagine how it must be, for a werewolf with heightened senses to stumble into this. Trees grew higher than the clouds. Tiny cramped apartments slumped against a castle with winding turrets and flags flapping proudly in the wind, shopping malls and taverns and a flurry of activity turning the street into a bustle somewhere between modern day and a time before man even existed.

People drove around in cars, swooped past on wings, clopped about in delicate carriages made of things not of this world. Chariots floated past across the skyline, and one tiny pixie with delicate dragonfly wings pounded on the hood of what could only be described as a cross between a space shuttle and a roller coaster seat, and screamed, in a suspiciously New York sounding accent that she was 'Walking here, dumbass!' And dumbass was the civil word for all the things she was screaming at the driver (pilot?) of the vehicle.

Tall stately girls with long ivory braids and ears that climbed high to a delicate, pointed tip conversed happily with short, squat creatures that looked suspiciously like a walking swamp, and even blushed when a shadowy figure, moving catlike, grinned at them with unnatural transparent teeth. Creatures the size of his thumb danced around each other in mid air to a tune played by a lithe furry creature with fingers so long they looked like spindly little insects. They danced madly along the instrument he was blowing furiously into. A plump woman and an enormously broad, but impossibly short dwarf hawked their delicious smelling street meats with loud, piercing calls and wheedling smiles. 

It had been five years since Stiles was this quiet for this long, just taking it all in. It was a jumble of time periods, a mess of culture and color and shapes and sizes. It was taking everything his poor brain had in it to make sense of it at all. It was beautiful. 

Maybe he'd been expecting to walk into a world more brutal, than this. A world that stole babies and replaced them with nothing but a pitiful facsimile of what they should have been. Maybe he'd been expecting tall, stark towers that looked like they contained a dungeon or two. Maybe he'd expected hovels and hoards of ogres and orcs. Maybe he'd been expecting slaves being driven in droves around the place, but it was nothing like that. It was nothing like anyone would ever imagine. It was stunning. It was magical. It was a place that made your heart beat hard and your palms sweat. A place that made you want.

Perhaps that was the danger of it. He could see it right here. Right now. He could see a life. He could see himself arguing with one of the vendors on the street selling wares that shifted between timeless treasures and consolation prizes from the shitty town fair. He could see himself nibbling delicately at one of the many snacks carried under his nose by the milling public. He could see himself smiling at the pretty girls and the grinning boys. He could see himself here. On these streets. Living. He could feel the want for that tugging in his gut, terrifyingly strong.

The allure of it was irresistible. It was like a steel hook had embedded itself in his belly and was tugging him forward. And like a fish that had been caught, he was helpless but to go. To go exploring, to go into this world, to learn, to understand, to dig his fingers into this new, beautiful place and pick it apart piece by piece. Morgan had terrified him. It was all talk about the future and 'Who you are' and he'd sounded like every awful supervillain Stiles had ever read about, watched on screen. 'You are the chosen one' didn't really work on people with Stiles' insecurities and self confidence issues.

But this. Oh, this. If Morgan had only shown Stiles a glimpse of this, Stiles would have taken his hand and walked into the darkness in seconds. Without a second thought. He'd been afraid of Morgan. He'd been afraid of himself, of what he was. But he was scared shitless of this. Because those other fears, they made him want to fight. And there was no shame in fighting. But this? This made Stiles greedy. It made him curious. It made him lose himself a little bit, caught up in the marvel he'd stumbled into. This was dangerous. This, was trouble. This, was Fairyland. And now Stiles understood all the legends. He understood how the heroes had gotten caught in the first place. He understood how the books had a tone of wistfulness, of longing. He understood why you would give everything up just for a taste.

"Do you need to sit down, young man?" Ghillie's voice cut through Stiles' shock, but thankfully, he wasn't expected to respond, because it wasn't directed at him. It was directed at Derek, who's eyes had gone suspiciously red around the iris. 

With a shake of the head that Stiles internally likened to that of a dog trying to dry off, Derek pushed himself back into a normal, human facade. "No." His voice was firm, but Stiles had known him long enough to know when there was an edge to it, a shakiness. Derek felt it too. And to ground himself, Stiles dug his nails into Derek's forearm. The bastard barely even flinched, but he did turn to Stiles, nostrils flaring, and, whatever he'd smelled, relaxing him slightly, making his shoulders less of a straight line and more of a slope. "No, I'm fine." Derek rumbled out, and Stiles nodded.

"Me too. I'm fine too. Thanks for asking." His sarcasm wasn't as cutting as it would have been if he hadn't just received the shock of his life. He still felt like he was in that moment when you'd just jumped into a pool and opened your eyes. All you could see was bubbles and the faint trace of light. Your skin still stinging from impact. It was that breathless moment before resurfacing. And it was only when Derek put a hand on his back, steering him closer, that he got a good gulp of air into his crashed feeling lungs. It felt good, having Derek's warm, firm fingers branding a path of heat against his spine. Even though it was probably just because a pedestrian had been about to plow right into Stiles, ignoring him in favor of some kind of scroll. It was a nice gesture all the same.

Looking up into Derek's eyes and seeing the concern there, Stiles grinned, and patted a muscular bicep, nodding. "I am. Really. C'mon. I run with werewolves. You think Harry Potter World is going to rattle me? Please." He was bluffing, putting on false confidence, and both of them knew it. But it was true, that whole cliche about talking something into truth. His bluster made him get a grip, made him feel a little bit stronger. Derek's hand dropped off his back. Stiles tried not to miss the warmth.

Dry coughing rattled through the silence, and his eyes broke contact with Derek's, and he turned towards an interrupting Ghillie with a scowl twisting down the corners of his mouth. Innocently, Ghillie did nothing but pat Stiles on the hand, like an old, condescending grandfather. "I'm very impressed, of course." Damn it. Ghillie's sarcasm voice was better than his. "But if we could get on with the actual lesson instead of standing about in the street waiting for a stampede to tear us limb from limb, I'd be much obliged." Lesson. Like Stiles had anything to learn from mini, pudgy Hulk.

"This is one of the converging ley lines. Awful places. Can't move an inch without running into someone. Why, just last week I tumbled headfirst into a goblin, and if you think Trolls are rank just wait until you get a noseful of whatever that was-" Interrupting, as per usual, Stiles inserted himself into the conversation, nudging slightly into Derek's space so he could peer over at Ghillie inquisitively. 

"Back up to the ley lines portion of this lesson- Ley lines?" 

It was as though it was a capital offense that Stiles didn't know what those were, if the look in Ghillie's eyes was anything to go by. Summon the electric chair, prep the needle. "Ley lines, lad! Ley lines! They're only what the entire fae community is based around, honestly, I've never seen anyone with your level of supernatural involvement that didn't know even the basics!" Ghillie sputtered for a moment in indignation, like an old teapot just before it started screeching. Before the unearthly English Breakfast in the morning tea squeal could come out of that compact green body, however, Derek stepped in to defend Stiles.

Now, that was shocking all on it's own. That Derek would even think of defending Stiles from something that wasn't the immediate danger of death, but, it seemed like he was doing it a lot today. Maybe it should have made Stiles feel smothered. He could handle his own business, after all. A little snark had never stopped him, not for a second. But it warmed him a little bit, that Derek was so quick to jump to his side when it was someone else insulting him. "His education has been mainly at the end of an enemies claws, and between the pages of a Hunter's bestiary. He might not know ley lines, but he knows how to stay alive when he's cornered by an Alpha. He could either read a book, or fight to stay alive. Which would you pick?" Stiles had never doubted Derek's fierceness when protecting a member of his pack, but it was distinctly satisfying to see Ghillie taken down by it.

So Stiles didn't mention that it was usually his reading a book that kept him alive. But judging by the look on Ghillie's face, he knew already. "Well, if he learns by experience, then come on, the lot of you. Let us experience." And off he went. The man moved surprisingly fast for an oversized moss ball. And then they were all but jogging down the street, passing everything in a blur of color and a whirl of sound, a burst of scents. It all moved past him, like a panoramic shot taken on his phone gone very, very wrong. And now, to add to the overwhelming sensory input, Ghillie was talking.

"Ley lines are ancient, structural paths. The paths the Elders walked, then the Egyptians, the Greeks and Romans. Like tectonic plates, they're constantly shifting below the earth, little roads of magical energy connecting place to place. Fae are drawn to them, to be near them. Some even think it makes them more powerful. It's like humans, starting their settlements around clean water, towns lining rivers and lakes." That made- a surprising amount of sense. There were always those places, the places that thrummed with magical energy that just couldn't be explained, like Walmart at three in the morning when everything was hazy and the rotisserie chicken was half price. 

They were taking back roads and turns, and finally, Ghillie led them straight to what looked like a public garden, caged in by a little fence that creaked and some chicken wire that couldn't even keep out a mouse, let alone something that would be chewing on the begonias. It was well tended though, and there were trees mixed in with the neat little rows of vegetables, most sprouting fruit. One, however, was noticeably bare of anything but leaves and white, papery bark. A birch tree. It wasn't the biggest tree in the garden by any means, but it gave off an energy that reminded Stiles suspiciously of the Nemeton. "Here we are then. Welcome home, Mr. Stilinski." Fiddling with his robes frayed edges, Ghillie nodded a head towards Derek. "We'll be finding other accommodations for Mr. Hale, of course, he can't exactly stay in a changeling house." As if that sentence didn't set of warning bells.

Obviously Derek was seeing the red flags too, because a deep growl had started up in his chest, and Stiles slapped a hand on those marble hard pectorals just to stop him. "We said we were staying together." Derek snarled.

"Yeah, and we also didn't agree to stay in a- changeling house. Because, wow, does that sound like one of those halfway houses to you? Bad halfway houses. People still being monitored after their release from jail type houses. Not that this is a house. This is like- what a house is before it's chopped up and actually, y'know,build into a house. " The intake of breath from both Ghillie and Derek occurred at the exact same time. It was almost spooky, the way they both trained their eyes on him at the same time, looking somewhere between shocked, and offended. 

Ghillie was practically purple with rage. "Chop up my tree indeed! I'll not have any threats in this house, boy-o, you mark my words." The boughs of the tree swayed intimidatingly. Stiles hadn't thought they could do that. Turned out, twigs could very determinedly look like they wanted to skewer your eyeballs out and wear them as earrings. "And I'll not have you insulting a changeling house. It's hardly a prison. It's more like-" Ghillie huffed, and just like that, the tree seemed to collapse in on itself.

Like it was made of playdoh, the branches all folded up together, twining around each other, until they formed one big circle at the top of the sturdy trunk, glimmering green and shimmering in the sunlight like a mirage, like if he just blinked his eyes hard enough, he'd find out that it had never happened, that it had all been a trick of his imagination. When Ghillie stepped on the trunk it molded to his footsteps like clay, his own personalized stepladder, so that he could walk up with ease to the circle. "In, the both of you. It's far easier to show you than to try and explain it like I'm teaching a preschool class." 

 

Rude. But maybe more accurate than Stiles would ever like to admit. He really was, comparatively, on a preschoolers level when it came to this, just learning about all the aspects of his world he'd never known. So he stepped up. It was like stepping on mud, just firm enough not to give way. He was about to take another step, but he was yanked back before he could, by Derek's hand on his arm. "We don't know if this is safe." His werewolf bodyguard hissed urgently, eyeing the branch circle warily. "If we walk in there- we might not come out." Stiles didn't pull away from him. Instead, he used Derek's grip to pull closer. 

"When has that ever stopped us before?"

Anyone could see that Derek thought that this was a trap, a bad plan, and a suicide mission, all wrapped up in one. But when Stiles tugged, he followed, standing plastered to his back like Stiles breaking away would take Derek's very limbs off as he went. And they stepped forward. And forward. And in.

It should have felt like something. Like buzzing under his skin, like a slimy outer coating, like anything, but it just felt like a sliding door whooshing open, and Stiles tromping through. One minute, he was in a garden. The next, he was in the middle of a college campus. "You see? Hardly appropriate for Mr. Hale to be living here." And maybe it was, because as far as the eye could see, it was college age kids, milling about, laughing, talking, and paying about as much attention to Stiles as anyone in Beacon Hills High would.

One sharp, piercing whistle later, the entire yard came to a stop, turning to look at Ghillie. "Alright you lot. We've got a fresh meat on our hands! Where's the Stilinski boy?" Stiles' hand got about halfway into the air, but then someone, a girl with skinny legs and a mop of bright orange hair was shouting out in response. 

"Where else? Mouse is in the library!" And much to Stiles' shock, there appeared a girl next to her, just as skinny of leg, and just as orange of hair mop, nodding furiously. "If Taco Tuesday and pixie pears didn't exist, we'd never see his face!" There were muffed bursts of laughter, and one outright hoot and holler from a broad guy in scuffed workboots and a too tight t-shirt. "Go get Mouse! His birthday present came early!"

Safe to say, Stiles was very, awfully, confused. But he was also very smart. And that meant he could see that some of the faces in the crowd were exactly alike. A girl with purple hair had her arm slung over a muscular boy with her exact facial features, and two boys were playing basketball with moves so similar it was like looking at mirror images. Dopplegangers. Or, perhaps more accurately, changeling twins. The stolen human and their fae counterpart. 

In his plan, Stiles had thought he'd be rescuing his human double from some dank hole or a life of servitude. Instead, he saw his own face, bright and lit up like a Christmas tree, running at him with the kind of limb flailing that Stiles had perfected in middle school. His hair was a little longer than Stiles', but other than that, Stiles would have thought he was looking at himself. Super freaky, seeing what his own face looked like when it was happy. "Finally!"

For all that he looked exactly like the boy that charged into his arms, giving him an enthusiastic hug and shake combo, it was Stiles and Derek that wore twin expressions of shock and horror. But then, Derek, the traitor, was the first to break down and actually articulate his terror. "Dear God. There's two of you."

Glumly, Stiles nodded, responding in a voice just a little strained, and breathless from the bear hug he was trapped in. "Prepare for trouble. And make it double."


End file.
